Twice in the nest half mile he stopped.  The third time, a full mile from the cabin, was in a dense growth of spruce through the tops of which snow and wind did not penetrate.  Here he made a nest of spruce-boughs for Celie, and they waited for the day.  In the black interval that precedes Arctic dawn they listened for sounds that might come to them.  Just once came the wailing howl of one of Bram’s wolves, and twice Philip fancied that he heard the distant cry of a human voice.  The second time Celie’s fingers tightened about his own to tell him that she, too, had heard.

A little later, leaving Celie alone, Philip went back to the edge of the spruce thicket and examined closely their trail where it had crossed a bit of open.  It was not half an hour old, yet the deluge of snow had almost obliterated the signs of their passing.  His one hope was that the snowfall would continue for another hour.  By that time there would not be a visible track of man or beast, except in the heart of the thickets.  But he knew that he was not dealing with white men or Indians now.  The Eskimos were night-trackers and night-hunters.  For five months out of every twelve their existence depended upon their ability to stalk and kill in darkness.  If they had returned to the burning cabin it was possible, even probable, that they were close on their heels now.

For a second time he found himself a stout club.  He waited, listening, and straining his eyes to penetrate the thick gloom; and then, as his own heart-beats came to him audibly, he felt creeping over him a slow and irresistible foreboding—­a premonition of something impending, of a great danger close at hand.  His muscles grew tense, and he clutched the club, ready for action.

CHAPTER XVII

It seemed to Philip, as he stood with the club ready in his hand, that the world had ceased to breathe in its anticipation of the thing for which he was waiting—­and listening.  The wind had dropped dead.  There was not a rustle in the tree-tops, not a sound to break the stillness.  The silence, so close after storm, was an Arctic phenomenon which did not astonish him, and yet the effect of it was almost painfully gripping.  Minor sounds began to impress themselves on his senses—­the soft murmur of the falling snow, his own breath, the pounding of his heart.  He tried to throw off the strange feeling that oppressed him, but it was impossible.  Out there in the darkness he would have sworn that there were eyes and ears strained as his own were strained.  And the darkness was lifting.  Shadows began to disentangle themselves from the gray chaos.  Trees and bushes took form, and over his head the last heavy windrows of clouds shouldered their way out of the sky.